The Curious Incident of Molly in the Night
by flipperthepenguin4
Summary: Molly wakes up somewhere strange in London. The only person who can help her is Sherlock. Obviously.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, so please be nice. This is set after the Empty Hearse, which I absolutely loved. I can't wait till Sunday!**

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Slowly Molly opened her eyes, clutching her throbbing head tight. Bright white sunlight streamed into the room as she groggily sat up. What was the time, she thought; she was meant to be at Bart's by 8:30. She swivelled her head to look at her little blue alarm clock. But it wasn't there. She let out a little gasp as she looked round her room. Except it wasn't her room. There was no ginger cat curled up on her bed. No books strewn on her bedside table. None of her clothes hung over her armchair. Where the hell was she?

The room Molly was currently in was impeccably tidy. In fact, the only things in the room were the bed and Molly. She subconsciously itched her right forearm but then winced as it sent tiny shocks of pain up her arm. She rolled back her sleeve to discover etched into her skin two words. DON'T TELL. The words sent a shiver down her spine. The cuts were fairly deep she observed, but had healed ever so slightly, meaning they had been there for at least 5 hours. Molly had absolutely no recollection of the cuts being made. Straight to the point, Molly had no idea what she was doing here - wherever her was. Sliding her legs off the bed, she stepped onto the hard floor of the room and noted she was still wearing her clothes and shoes.

Her head felt sore as she cautiously pushed on the cold handle of the door. It opened to reveal a small corridor with five other doors. Three of them had numbers on them. I'm in a hotel then, she realised. One of the doors had TOILETS written on them. She sighed with relief. Although she was eager to leave, she was bursting.

Molly looked at herself in the toilet mirror. Two minutes previously she had vomited violently. She splashed the cold water onto her face, then pulled her chestnut hair into a ponytail, smoothing it down against her scalp. Her mind felt scrambled - she couldn't recall anything from the previous night. Last thing she could remember was leaving 221b Baker Street with To - oh God. Where was Tom? Her mind raced at how worried he must be about her. She slipped her hand into her pocket to remove her phone, but it wasn't there. Taking one last look at herself, she left the toilets. She followed the stairs behind the sixth door that led to the small reception. The receptionist had enquired whether she'd slept well, to which she had replied yes, out of politeness. As she left the hotel, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. 8:17. From outside she looked at where she had presumably spent the night, making a mental note of the address.

Finally, she arrived at Bart's at 9:01. Molly had been in a part of London she hadn't visited before, so it had taken her a while to find out how to reach her desired location. On the way to the morgue she bumped into Mike, who handed her phone. It turned out she had accidentally left it in the toilets. When she first reached the lab, she messaged Tom (her fiancé), declaring she was all right and at work. Slightly disappointed, she found she had no messages or missed calls.

After a large coffee, Molly settled into her normal morning routine of sorting through papers and looking at corpses. Or tried to at least. Her mind didn't want to focus on her usual tasks. She kept knocking things over or missing vital details on her cases. At 9:45 Tom replied - "Good to know. Just got home. See you later xxx.

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_They had just left Sherlock's, when he'd got an urgent call from his boss. An unexpected development. He was a journalist. Tom had quickly kissed Molly before leaving in his car, and letting her find her own way home. She'd let out a long cold breath in the dark night, before make her way down the street._

* * *

She gasped as somebody strode through the doors of her lab, jolting her back to reality.

"Morning. Like old times already." Sherlock stated, as he placed a metal box on the desk with a clang.

"Hello Sherlock," she tried to smile calmly in return. Molly slowly looked down at the papers in front of her. On the otherside of the lab, Sherlock was frantically pulling items from the cupboards and slamming them on the desk. He stopped. Molly could feel his intense eyes burning into the back of her neck. She snapped her head round, but he'd smoothly averted his gaze back to his work.

"Can you pass me a pencil, please?" he asked her quietly. She walked over to him and placed it beside him silently. As she turned away he caught her arm.

"Are you ok?" he enquired, knowing in fact she wasn't. Although she normally wore very little make-up, she had nothing on her face at all. Her clothes were creased, her was sticking up and he could smell her sweat in the air. And that was just his very first deductions.

"I'm fine" she replied brightly, brushing him off. She turned to go but he grabbed her forearm, making her let out a practically silent gasp. But Sherlock doesn't miss a thing - he frowned at her.

"Don't just say your fine when you're not. We both know what that means,". He rolled her sleeve up tenderly, noting her raised temperature. "DON'T TELL. Who did this to you?" he scowled, letting go off her arm, raising his eyes to her pink face.

"I-I don't know," she said softly.

"What? How can you-" he stopped as she stared at him.

"Oh," he nodded. "Don't worry, I'll find out," he smiled comfortingly. "Back in one moment," he said, as he strode out the lab with the box in his hands.

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**Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I'll try to update soon. Any comments would be very much appreciated x.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your reviews, follows and favourites! :) I'm not sure about this chapter, so please tell me what you think. This one's more from Sherlock's perspective.**

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Sherlock looked down from the window of 221b Baker Street. Snowflakes gently fluttered down in the inky blackness of the night. The streetlights illuminated a small figure - Molly. She was walking slowly down the street, her fiancé having just driven off in his car. He knew he should offer to take her home, but he was disappointed in her choice of future husband. Although he didn't seem to be a psychopath, he was dreadfully boring. As soon as he and John had returned from entertaining the press, he had endured three hours of listening to his mundane chatter about him trying to get promotion of his job. Sherlock could tell he didn't have a chance in hell. He had been on his best behaviour though - he hadn't wanted to upset Molly because he wanted her to be happy. She deserved it. Surprisingly, he had actually enjoyed the evening, apart from him being there, reconnecting with his only friends.

"I'm going now, Sherlock. I'll see if I have any interesting cases for you tomorrow," Lestrade announced friendly as he turned to go.

"We're going home as well. Pop round tomorrow," John added. Sherlock turned round and narrowed his eyes.

"You're not going to stay here? But I'm back now," he stated.

"I live with Mary now. Frankly, she's a lot better at being a housemate," he said jokily, squeezing the shoulders of his girlfriend. Slightly annoyed, Sherlock picked up his violin and started tuning it. He hadn't played in two years.

"Goodbye,".

"See you soon, Sherlock," John sighed.

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Lestrade certainly didn't disappoint Sherlock with the promise of an interesting case, even by Sherlock's standards this was intriguing. A top London banker had been murdered in his office, yet there was no sign of his killer on the CCTV. It was definitely murder though. When Sherlock searched he found a box covered in the banker's blood, and secured with dozens of little locks. The box he deduced, had meant to be found, so as expected there were none of the killers fingerprints on the box. The cause of murder wasn't due to money problems, it was a long running family dispute. He decided he'd visit the family in the afternoon, after he'd looked more closely at the box.

* * *

He strode through the doors where Molly worked. "Morning. Just like old times already," he greeted Molly, as he placed his possession on the table. They had rearranged everything since he had last been here, so it took him some time till he found everything he needed. Molly was curiously quiet, he noticed. She had only said hello to him, whilst normally she would attempt to strike up conversation between them or at least offer him coffee, even if he was busy. Although he would've liked to solve his case first, his two years away had taught him to appreciate what he'd had, like Molly. She wasn't presented in her usual way, was exhausted and her mind was preoccupied with something, he could tell. Suddenly, she swivelled round to look at him, but he looked back down at his work. "Can I have a pencil, please?" he asked, wanting to get a closer look at her.

* * *

Sherlock dropped the box from the top of the stairwell at and watched as it plummeted. This was the fastest way to open it. He was confident it contained nothing breakable anyway. As he raced down the seven flights of stairs, he wondered who had done that to Molly. Apart from the cuts and being a bit subdued, they hadn't done anything else to her, not even taken anything from her. The words 'DON'T TELL' sent a shiver down his spine, hoping that it wasn't his presence back in her life that had caused the events. When John had been taken, they both knew it was because of Sherlock.

The box laid on the floor. There was a slight fracture in the bottom, nothing else. Damn. He should've known it wouldn't open if he dropped it. It was obvious. How stupid was he?

He returned to the lab. Molly was sorting through some paperwork, and shyly looked away from him, blushing. "Did you open it?" she enquired.

"Obviously not," he replied. Sherlock quietly walked over to her.

"Sherlock! Wh-what are you doing?!" she exclaimed, batting him away with her hands. He removed a bobby pin from her hair.

"I need this to open the box," he smiled.

* * *

He slowly unpicked all 25 of the locks on the box. Sherlock opened it up to reveal several signed wills of the victim, made on the different dates. The last was made only a week ago. Sherlock smiled delightedly. "He knew he was going to die, so he changed the will,".

"Couldn't it have just been a coincidence?" Molly asked.

"No. He liked rountine and he updated his will every ten years. He knew he was going to die, when and where too. So he went there. He didn't want a struggle, so...".

"But how did he know he was going to die?".

"He was threatened. Lestrade said they found no evidence of why he was killed. Knowing those idiots, they've probably missed something,' he grimaced. "I'm going to interview the family this afternoon. I'm sure it's got something to do with them,". Sherlock put the wills back in the box. "In the meantime, I can investigate what happened to you,".

"Only if you have nothing else to do...". She then explained all she could remember about the previous night to him, whilst she tidied away the mess he'd made.

"And you can remember the address?".

"17 Placard Avenue,".

* * *

Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as they turned into the street. This wasn't where you'd find a hotel. It wasn't a nice part of London either. He got out the cab, thanked the driver and knocked on the door of no.17. A short bald middle-aged man opened it. He had no long term partner or children, was unemployed and from his clothes had just been away, Sherlock deduced, and certainly didn't run a hotel. It was worth a try though.

"I'd like to make a booking for the hotel,".

"Hey?! What you on about?" he stared at Sherlock blankly.

"Yes, thought so. May I come in, Mr Weston?" he strode in confidently. Although the walls were unpainted, the lounge was full of the clutter Sherlock would expect from a man like Mr Weston. The dust on the shelves and telly was thick and undisturbed. "What the hell do you think your doing?! You can't just come b-".

"Can't I?" Sherlock sighed, as he pushed past him and started up the stairs.

"Look here, I could call the police you know! Get you arrested," the man panted behind Sherlock.

"No you couldn't. I work for the police,". Sherlock opened the door at the top of the stairs, to reveal a corridor with five doors. It matched Molly's description. He opened the first one to reveal a messy room - the man's - the floor covered in a sea of clothes. A suitcase lay open the bed. He'd been away on holiday, up north to see relatives for a week. The second he opened was a spare room. It contained a bed, chest of drawers, book shelves full of books and a dressing table. Unlike the rest of the house though, there was no dust on anything. Furthermore, the marks on the carpet showed the furniture had been moved around, within the last day or so. They people who took Molly must've rearranged it."Why though?" Sherlock pondered aloud. Why go to all that trouble?

"Why, what?" the owner of the house exclaimed. Offering no explanation, Sherlock continued to search the room. Then his eyes locked onto something. A letter on top of the boxshelf. He reached up and took it down. On the front the word 'SHERLOCK' was written with dark red.

"I-Is that blood?" the man quivered next to him. Sherlock nodded. He slowly opened the letter, dreading what he would find inside, scrutinising the envelope for clues. 'DID YOU SAY YOUR LAST GOODBYE TO HER?'. Sherlock could've sworn his heart stopped. This was a trap. He'd been dragged here so whoever hurt Molly could her even more. Sherlock pushed the man aside as he sprinted out the room, praying he wasn't too late.

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**So what do you think? Please review :)**


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